by Sunniva Dee
“She’s right. You overdid it,” Troy says, the first one to snap out of the collective freeze-up. “My guess is we’ll be sued by someone, or if we aren’t, at least there’s some journalist out there writing an ass-kicker of an article on us as we speak. We’ll be slaughtered in the press, dude.”
“It was killer though.” Emil rubs his chin, delighted like the blond burst of joy I used to know. Still, he has the decency to meet my eyes. “You knew it’s a replica though, right?”
“Of what?” I growl.
He narrows his eyes, trying to decide if I’m joking. “It’s a toy gun. A fake firearm. See the orange plug right here, inserted in the barrel?” Emil wiggles the gun in front of me. “Means it’s not real. Damn club’s uptight.”
“No, it’s the law,” Troll cuts in. “You don’t just tote real firearms in public places.” His expression smoothens. “But it’s a great replica.”
“He could’ve had a replica without that bright-ass piece of plastic in the barrel though,” Elias informs us. “If the replica’s from before 1898, it’s legal.”
“Really?” Emil is genuinely interested. “Wait, how do you know?”
Elias shrugs. “C’mon, you’ve seen my uncle’s collection.”
Are we chattering right now? Is no one taking this seriously?
“Hell no!” I spit out. “That was already too fucking real.”
“She’s swearing a lot,” Elias observes. “Girl means business.”
“Sure does,” Emil says. He pulls me in, hugging me and giving me an affectionate noogie on the head. He’s reducing me to a little sister with that move. As I think it, Shandor appears in the doorway, and I have a total déjà vu moment as he freezes the way the entire stage did a minute ago. In his case, it’s because I’m still in Emil’s arms.
I could tell Shandor, “It’s not what it looks like,” which would be all too true. Emil and I are on parallel roads. They keep bumping into each other, but whenever they cross, that’s all they do—cross, only to keep moving in the same direction with a few feet between them.
What do I have to do to make them merge?
“Aishe, can you help me out here for a minute?” Shandor asks, squinting with barely contained anger. I ignore him, because—
“I don’t get it! How can you be freaking playful right now?” I seethe at Emil, shoving him. “You’re impossible.”
He drops me and hunches his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t think you’d believe I’d do that in front of six thousand people.”
“So the joke’s on me then?”
“Geez, snippy,” Elias comments. “Remember not to do that again, Emil. No pointing your fake gun at your head in front of our merch girl.” For all I know, that might have been a jab at my entitlement, but I don’t care.
“Guys! Go. Go.” Troll waves the band back onstage, and before I can react, Shandor’s claws are in my arm and he’s hauling me into the load-in area, out of the safety of others’ company. There’s no use objecting. He’s not going to listen; I can tell from that squinted glare under the bandanna.
“You got it. You contracted it, you idiot,” he hisses.
“They’ll be off in five minutes. You’ve got a job to do.”
“You think I care about my job when my cousin’s falling into the pit of unreciprocated plague?” He’s so upset he’s shaking. “Why did you stay on their bus, Aishe? It’s like you wanted this to happen. He’s not going to stay with you. You understand that, right? Emil isn’t your future, fuck—at least he wasn’t supposed to be. Now he’ll be your future in a different way, as in your bane!”
“Stop butting into my life,” I say, but I’m not as angry as he is. Shandor’s and my history is uninterrupted. He’s always been there for me, giving up on opportunities to be with the closest thing he has to a sister. Heck, even the very first playmate I remember is Shandor.
He ignores my comment. “It might not be too late. I’ve been working on that gig I told you about, with the all-female band, and on behalf of the both of us, I’m having an interview tomorrow morning. The Thalias are very interested. If all goes according to the plan—”
“I’ve contracted nothing.” I try to keep my hands from fiddling and broadcasting my nerves. “What makes you think that? I’d be worried about anyone doing something as stupid as what Emil did. You saw him. That could have been a public suicide for crying out loud. After Chavali, you know I can’t even think about that stuff.”
He considers my clarification, flaring his nostrils in anger. What I say makes more sense than I deserve. Shandor takes on the responsibility for my problems. Shandor fixes my problems.
Since Chavali and the noose, he won’t sleep until he believes that I’m okay. It’s unfair to him, to me too, really, because I should have enough worldly experience to survive without my wannabe tyrant of a babysitter.
I jerk my hand free, swiveling to walk back to the stage. “Fuck You” plays at a resounding decibel level in there, and the audience is ecstatic.
“No,” Shandor decides, not paying attention to the biggest hit of Clown Irruption. The tune shakes the foundation of the arena with its bass and drums, with Emil working himself into a not-so-private orgasmic peak, the lyrics courtesy of Bo’s love for Nadia. The words of the song always make me blush.
“Don’t play me,” Shandor clips out. “I saw the ugly truth of the plague up close at the age of three, before you were born; the look in your eyes when you raged at Emil in there, that was the face of the love fire.”
I bunch my brows together. “What did you see at three?”
“What became a well-kept secret. My mother, your Aunt Physante…” There’s a swallow deep in Shandor’s throat, like he’s struggling to continue. “She’s not my biological mother. Physante is my father’s love fire from the Aresadra clan, a girl he met at seven years of age and never forgot. Mother and Father’s was an arranged marriage. My father was my mother’s plague, but her love wasn’t reciprocated.”
I suck in a breath and cover my mouth.
“Continents apart, Father never forgot Physante. As little as I was, I still remember my mother’s all-consuming sadness. Until she couldn’t take it anymore and disappeared on a cold beach at the coast of Finland. They found her in a stream a kilometer up from our campground. The water wasn’t even that deep. And yeah, in case you wondered, she forced her own death.”
There’s a small, small smile twisting Shandor’s mouth as he looks at me. “It’s funny how good we are at keeping secrets. You know? I guess the more grueling truths we can shield our loved ones from, the better.”
I shake my head, wordless. How could I have lived with my family for so long without hearing of Shandor’s biological mother? Physante was always my aunt—I never had another aunt on my mother’s side. Like my mom and dad, Aunt Physante and Uncle Brishen were shining examples of how the plague could be beautiful and become an everlasting love fire.
I see now why Shandor left our community. All this time I’d credited it to his rebellious side.
My head is spinning. Shandor pats my back like I’m the one who needs comfort. “I bet you didn’t know this either: arranged marriages were supposed to beat the plague. It often works too. That’s why so many still swear by it.”
He lets out a weary sigh. “And Aishe, if you think you’re fooling me with Emil, think again. I’m not blind. You tried to arrange your own marriage in order to force the plague under control before it hit you. You thought you were smart, didn’t you? Instead, you’ve created your own trap. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m making sure you don’t end up like my mother.”
AISHE
It’s been a shock to my system to learn that Aunt Physante and Uncle Besnick’s story wasn’t as beautifully simple as I’d thought.
I didn’t know arranged marriages were meant to prevent disaster, and I hadn’t connected the dots between arranged marriages and the way I’d tried to form-fit a milder relationship wi
th Emil.
In my mind, I want to fight Shandor’s truth even if I know. My cousin sees straight through me, and he’s right; for me, it’s already too late.
After the encore, instead of pouncing on Emil again and making him suffer for scaring me, I pack up my merch, count up my money, and have the girls sum up the remaining T-shirts before I get on the bus. I don’t hand out beers to the guys or chat with Troy. I’m not even there to watch the meet-n-greet.
On the bus, I grab leftover pasta from the fridge, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed. I lock myself into my bunk, curtains clipped closed, and I lie there with my Kindle open, staring at the last page of yesterday.
I should ask to switch back to the crew bus.
The guys are loud when they get back on. Emil is drunk, and so is Elias. Nadia sniffles as she passes through the bunk area on the way to the back lounge, while Bo barks to the others to keep it down because the two of them are going to bed early. Nadia’s bouts of grief have letups now and then. She offers a smile at her surroundings on these occasions, but tonight must have turned for the worse.
“I just want to try again,” she whispers as he slides the door shut behind them.
“I know, darling. We’re following doctor’s orders though. They said three months at the minimum to keep it from happening again. The scarring needs to heal inside of you, remember?”
“I don’t care,” she sobs. “Please, baby. Let’s…” The words distort with her soft crying. I fumble with my earbuds to block out their too-private conversation as he tells her—
“I love you. I love so you much. You can be as mad at me as you want, but I’ll never do anything that can hurt you. Never, darling.”
I swallow a lump in my throat as Emil whoops in the front lounge. “Spinal Tap, guys! Definitely time for more Spinal Tap. ’Cause we can’t just tap out after this.” He giggles like a kid, maybe at his double use of “tap.”
I pop the earbuds in and click my nature sounds app on.
Two half-read pages later, my mood is better. A little white guy like Emil just needs to realize that I’m here while she’s not. He can’t be inflicted by the plague—it’s a Romani thing. His is just a regular, old-fashioned heartbreak that he’ll get over.
I wake up with the bus halting. It lasts longer than a traffic-light stop. I pull out my earbuds and hear Troll head up front to the driver. No one else stirs, and Troll returns to bed quickly when the bus rocks forward, returning to its groove.
I sigh, trying to fall asleep again, but my thoughts take me for a ride, to Chavali, whom I left behind in the city of Linemell. All that time had passed since I last saw her, but something snapped back into place after squeezing her tight. Suddenly, time was irrelevant; Chavali still guessed my thoughts, and I still read her emotions as if we’d never taken a break from being at each other’s side.
My dear baby sister. Despite being ostracized by our family, despite not having the community she loved and fluttering from place to place without a group of constants, Chavali is happy.
It’s hard to admit, but it’s Kennick. After six years, I see that the father of her fiancé isn’t a fluke. My sweet, sweet, beloved girl. Instead of dying, she found her plague, and he’s burning with the same, big, beautiful fire she is.
I should be ecstatic for her.
I am ecstatic.
I just wish.
They have our itinerary for the last three weeks of shows. Kennick will do whatever delights Chavali, and that is seeing me. They’ll find me. The thought of it makes my chest fizz with hope. To hug my baby sister, again and again and again—it’s in a very near future.
Since I don’t want to open my eyes and read, my thoughts dip to sadder facts. My brain cells find issues my daylight self doesn’t want to touch. They blow them up and make them seem even worse at night.
Emil once asked if my sister was the reason I left my clan. I’ve pressed the question out of my head. Did I? No, I left because of me. Because I didn’t want to adhere to their strict rules. I didn’t want to meet my plague, fight, and lose against it, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage.
Perhaps I should pull out my novel after all and dig into someone else’s story. Not even a written life can be as messed up as mine.
Above me, someone whimpers, and instinctively I know it’s not Troy. His sleep is as peaceful as a cat’s, slumbering quietly in the same position through the night, while Emil above him shifts according to dreams and moods.
After weeks in this bunk, my ear is fine-tuned to Emil. Is he dreaming? Maybe, but if so, he’s in pain. He sighs again, his voice on the shaky end of a moan.
With the feelings this man has awakened in me, I can’t stand that he’s suffering. I have the impulse to dive in, to help, to ease and soothe. The comparison might be screwed up, but this must be how it feels to be a mother. I can’t stand to be down here, way below him, just allowing his nightmare to run its course.
I swallow pride and common sense. Step on the edge of Troy’s bed, my toes curling around it better than the ladder. Troy’s curtains are drawn. Though it’s dark in there, I feel his eyes on me through the thin crack between the flaps of fabric. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I.
With my chest at Emil’s level, I hesitate. For a second, I fight the pull to comfort him. But then I am me, crazy me, hot-blooded and thoughtless me with the instincts and love from generations flooding my lungs and making my next move the only one possible.
I slink into his bed the way I’ve done many times before. I tug cotton closed over us so no one else knows. We’re in a small world, Emil and I, where Zoe can’t hurt him and I’m the heroine who can make him all better.
I like this. I like it so much.
I remain at the outer edge of his bed tonight. My pulse thumps, reaching my temple, telling me this could be wrong. But if he doesn’t reject me, doesn’t ask me to leave, then it’s right. I suppress my conscience which insists, “Would he ever throw you out once you’re here?”
I need to stop thinking and start living, and I do when his pained breaths unwind at my embrace from behind.
“Zee…”
“It’s Aishe,” I whisper. “I’m here, Emil. You can sleep now.”
He’s drunk. He doesn’t have a shirt on. Something deep inside still insists that I’m on the wrong track. How can I be on the wrong track when his muscles relax beneath my fingers and his chest deflates with relief?
He doesn’t want to be alone. Emil wasn’t created to be alone. He likes me. He’ll grow to like me even more. As soon as he realizes that his ex is just that—an ex—I’ll be what he needs exactly when he needs it. Like I am right now when he shifts under my hands.
I pull myself against his back, reveling in the smell of his skin. I haven’t known him for long, but his scent is so familiar it’s like he’s always been a part of me. I dip my face into the nape of his neck, inhaling. I’ll sleep like this, close to him. That’s all I will do.
But Shandor’s warnings dissipate from my mind when Emil pulls me tighter in sleep. “Baby,” he sighs out—he knows, I’m sure he knows—that I’m Aishe, not Zoe.
He turns toward me. Kisses me. In the dark, I can’t see if his eyes are open. It’s a connection I can’t lose. I won’t worry about whether or not I’m taking advantage of him.
I mean, of course I’m not—
I’m the girl. Guys are the ones taking advantage of people.
It’s not just my heart that lights up like a glowworm at his touch. Every part of me, intestines, gut, every organ must be iridescent with bliss.
I’m wearing a nightgown that’s short and easy for him to handle. I lift my hips. Let him roll down panties and massage me with sluggish fingers. His hands on me are all I need; it doesn’t take a minute for me to shiver through a quiet climax, which wakes him up completely.
“Goddamn, you’re hot,” he whispers, less quiet than I was. “Where’re my rubbers?”
I hush him and help
him find his condoms. I know where he keeps them, below his pillow. It makes me think he’s expecting me when he keeps them so close; a good thing, a beautiful thing.
He’s clumsy but gentle when he moves me beneath him. There’s Jameson and cigarettes on his breath, which has me realize that I’ve never seen him smoke. Is he exploring new vices?
I forget to worry when he rolls into me, strong and alive, cleaving me open and filling me perfectly. Oh yes he’s awake now. Emil knows my responses, and I love how he speeds up as soon as I contract around him. He grunts against my neck as he climaxes.
“Only twice?” he asks, voice husky at my ear afterward.
“Yeah. You’ve lost your touch,” I tease. Emil’s laugh is a hush for people snoozing around us. There was a time, I think to myself, where I’d never sleep with anyone in such close quarters. But with Emil it’s survival. It’s my future and needing my love to realize he’s mine.
I feel his gentle grip around my face, pulling me in, nose and forehead against mine. It’s achingly intimate, more than our lovemaking, and Emil’s sigh sounds so sad I know I won’t like what comes next.
“Aishe. You shouldn’t have come up here. I keep apologizing to you for everything that I do, but here I go again: I’m sorry I did that. I shouldn’t have.”
“I wanted it,” I say, caressing him, raking my fingers along his temples and into soft bed hair. “I’m happy.”
“That doesn’t make it right. You won’t feel this way tomorrow, sweetie. I’m a mess, okay? I don’t think you understand. There’s nothing about me, besides this”—he draws my hand down to cup his crotch that’s moist from us—“that can keep a girl satisfied.”
I want to say, I have hope. I want to say, Let time prove you wrong. I want to shout, Just give me a chance!
Pathetic? No. I’m fierce and a little bit ferocious. I’m a Romani, and in matters of love I am relentless. Emil just groaned out his need for me. Can I not turn that into more?